Thursday, June 26, 2014

So you're a zombie story lover, but don't know where to turn to find a really good one? Well, check out the Summer of Zombie Blog Tour 2014 going on throughout the month of June. On this stop of the tour, I'm promoting T. W. Piperbrook's Contamination 5: Survival. To give you a taste of what the book is about, here are two sample chapters.

Enjoy!

SAMPLE
CHAPTERS FROM

CONTAMINATION
5: SURVIVAL

By T.W.
Piperbrook

PART ONE –
HUNTED

1

“Over here!”

The men were coming. Through the haze,
Noah could hear the rumble of motors and the cry of voices. He
struggled to open his eyes, but they were swollen shut. His face
burned with pain.

After a few attempts, he cracked his
eyelids. The rays of the midday sun pierced his retinas, and he
squinted to reduce the glare. The fact that he was alive was either a
miracle or a curse; at the moment, he couldn’t decide which. He
wiggled his fingers and toes. As far as he could tell, nothing was
broken.

But that didn’t make him feel any
better.

He lifted his head, biting back a fresh
swell of pain. He was lying in the forest, about fifty feet from the
road. Around him was a legion of pines. Just minutes ago, he’d been
thrashing through the underbrush, hoping to find respite in the
depths of the forest. After expending his last bit of energy, he’d
dropped to the ground behind one of the large, sap-covered trunks.

Now he lay exhausted, listening to his
pursuers approach.

He patted his pockets, hoping to find
something he’d missed, but his ripped khaki shorts were empty. His
only hope was to summon enough strength to continue.

If he didn’t move, he’d die.

He thought of his family in Portland
and clenched his teeth. For the past few days, the image of Mom, Dad,
and Ricky had been the only thing keeping him going. Now he found
himself wondering if he’d ever see them again.

Don’t give up now.

Noah forced himself to his knees,
ignoring his aching muscles, and crawled through the thickets. Keep
low, and keep moving. He needed to put distance between himself
and the road. If the men couldn’t find him, perhaps they’d grow
bored and stop looking so closely; maybe they’d even give up.

The forest floor crackled under the
weight of men’s footsteps. The men had stopped talking, but their
breathing echoed through the trees behind him. In a matter of
minutes, Noah had become their target, their prey. Seconds after
seeing him, they’d forced his truck off the road and into a tree.

If only he’d taken another road…

For the past few days, he’d been
practicing the art of avoidance, doing his best to steer clear of the
infected and the survivors. After a few close calls with
trigger-happy lunatics, he’d been hesitant to trust anyone. At the
same time, he’d known the solitude couldn’t last forever. Sooner
or later he’d be forced to fight or flee. As much as he hated to
admit it, his current situation was long overdue.

He should’ve stayed at the salvage
yard in Arizona.

Leaving his former companions behind
had been one of the hardest things he’d had to do, and the guilt
had eaten at him for days. He could only pray that Sam, Delta, Dan,
and Quinn were safe.

But he needed to find his family.
Whether they were alive or dead, he needed to find them. He needed to
know.

He scrambled ahead through the forest,
listening to the snap of underbrush behind him, using his pursuers’
movements as cover. When they moved, he moved. When they stopped, he
stopped. He darted from tree to tree, using the thick trunks for
cover as if he were in the real-life version of a video game.

His vision was still bleary from losing
his glasses. His prescription was weak, but he’d been wearing them
regularly for driving, and his eyes struggled to adjust.

Beads of sweat dotted his forehead.
Over the course of the day, the sun had grown progressively hotter,
and as he ran, it enveloped him like a warm blanket. Aside from his
tattered shorts, Noah was wearing only a polo shirt and shoes. He
should’ve been comfortable, but instead, he was red and overheated.

One of the men coughed.

Noah ducked behind a tree. After a few
seconds, he peered behind him. On the road, a few hundred feet away,
he could see his pickup truck. All four tires had been flattened; the
hood was smoking. One of the men was standing guard next to it.

His pursuers weren’t letting him get
away. If he doubled back, he’d be trapped. His only hope was to
head deeper into the woods.

Hide or move.

Noah clambered forward. Given that the
men had rifles, he was hopelessly outmatched. There was no way he
could face them.

One glimpse of him and they’d shoot.

He continued on. After several more
minutes of running, he realized the men had stopped. He listened
closely as their low, muffled voices seeped through the forest. What
were they talking about? What were they planning?

Noah assessed his situation. The forest
in front of him was thick with foliage, but there was a clearing in
the distance.

If he could get to it, perhaps he’d
find help.

The area he was in wasn’t exactly
brimming with people, but civilization had to exist somewhere. He
stared at the distant patch of light, gauging how many steps it would
take him to get there.

Twenty? Twenty-five? How far could he
go before he was shot down?

Staying where he was would mean certain
death. He’d rather die on his feet than be mowed down on his knees.

Behind him, the forest fell into
silence.

He flexed his hands and prepared
himself to run.

This is it, Noah. This is your last
chance at escape.

Gritting his teeth, he broke from the
trees and ran.

2

Caddy Stevens had been fleeing all her
life. The fact that she was doing it now wasn’t a big surprise.

As she weaved through the streets of
Chester, the town she’d called home for most of her life, she
realized that not much had changed. The buildings were still old and
decrepit, the air still smelled like a landfill, and the streets were
filled with garbage.

The only difference was the hordes of
infected trying to kill her.

Sure, things had been cleaner a few
days ago, but not by much. The railing on the library steps was still
loose, the abandoned steel mill was still run-down, and the gas
stations still sported outdated pumps and inflated prices.

Yep—the only obvious difference was
the people. Now, instead of talking behind backs and whispering in
circles, they were coming at her head-on, mouths open and nails
extended.

At least they were forthright for a
change.

Caddy bounded through the alleyway
between Thomas and Stanley Streets, vaulting over a fallen garbage
can, praying to God she wouldn’t trip and fall. The creature behind
her was one of the fastest she’d seen. Even though she’d gotten a
head start, the thing was right on her tail, its rancid breath
reeking in the mid-afternoon air.

The thing used to be Tommy Prentiss,
the star of the high school track team.

If there was one thing Caddy had
learned, it was that the infection didn’t discriminate.

Caddy was in decent shape herself.
Although she wasn’t a sports fanatic, she’d kept active after
graduating high school, jogging several miles each night after work.
She’d mostly shied away from the drinking and partying that many of
her friends engaged in, preferring the quiet company of a book to a
Sunday-morning hangover.

Up until a few days ago, she’d been a
waitress at the town diner, hoping to save enough money to attend
community college next fall. Those plans had gone out the window when
her boss had tried to take a bite out of her.

In any case, Caddy was grateful she’d
been spared the infection. For whatever reason, she was alive, and so
was her mother. Her main goal now was to bring back the food she’d
ransacked from the A&P.

Having cleared the alleyway, Caddy
sprinted out into the street. Her breath came in short gasps; her
lungs burned. She hoped she’d have enough stamina to outrun her
pursuer.

Caddy would’ve preferred stealth to
speed, but Tommy had given her no choice. He’d surprised her in the
back aisle of the A&P, teeth bared, and she’d barely gotten out
alive.

And she wasn’t in the clear yet.

She flew down the block past a cluster
of brick buildings, worried that more of the infected would pick up
the chase. From what she’d seen, most of the creatures had remained
in the area, picking through the remnants of the survivors like
pigeons hunting for scraps. If others joined the pursuit, she wasn’t
convinced she could outrun them.

She was having enough trouble with
Tommy alone.

Earlier, she’d been in her mother’s
car, but after the infected had surrounded her, Caddy had crashed it
into a pole. Now she was alone and on foot. The gun holstered at her
side was empty. All she had left was a knife and the bag of groceries
she was carrying. She needed more weapons, but now wasn’t the time
to search for them.

She clutched the canvas bag to her
chest, doing her best to keep hold of it. If she dropped the food and
water, the entire trip would’ve been for nothing. And then what
would become of her mother?

Caddy shuddered at the scenario. She
couldn’t think about that. Not now.

Get home first. Worry later, she
told herself.

At the end of the block, the row of
buildings ended, giving way to a desolate two-lane road. Caddy’s
house was minutes away, but in order to get there, she’d have to
run in the open. The fact that Tommy was chasing her made things
difficult.

She’d have to throw him off. She
couldn’t lead him home.

As if on cue, the footsteps behind her
grew louder.

Tommy was gaining ground.

She stared at the last building on the
road. It was one she recognized. Town Line Diner. In spite of
the chaos below, the neon letters remained optimistically intact. It
was as if her former workplace were preparing for a stream of
customers, oblivious to the fact that the world had ended.

If she wanted to ward off Tommy
Prentiss, going into the diner might be her best shot. At least she
knew the layout. Maybe she could throw him off; perhaps she could
even trap him inside.

There was no way she could outrun him.
Not much longer, anyway.

Caddy veered from the sidewalk and ran
up the steps of the diner. She yanked at the door, relieved to find
it open. If it’d been locked, she would’ve been screwed. She
slipped through the entrance just as Tommy bashed into the other side
of the glass. His mouth hung open, exposing a row of bloodstained
teeth. Several of them had been chipped or broken; his tongue flailed
in his mouth.

And to think I kissed him once.
Gross.

Caddy pulled the door closed, ignoring
the pounding of Tommy’s hands. She slipped the lock into place. Her
chest heaved as she scanned the restaurant behind her.

It’d been four days since she’d
fled the diner. In the meantime, the bodies had started to decompose,
though she still recognized some of the patrons she’d served.

And somewhere inside was the body of
her boss—the woman she’d killed three days earlier. Caddy
swallowed and did her best to dispel the thought.

Bang!

She spun to find Tommy crashing against
the glass, his face contorted with rage. She didn’t have much time.
Caddy started along the counter, her shoes sliding on the linoleum.
Behind it was the entrance to the back room as well as an exit.

T.W. Piperbrook was born and raised in Connecticut, where he can still be found dreaming up stories or getting lost in local parks and reservoirs. In addition to writing, the author has also spent time as a full-time touring musician, touring across the US, Canada, and Europe.

He now lives with his wife, a son, and the spirit of his Boston Terrier.

The stench of rotting flesh is in the
air! Welcome to the Summer of Zombie Blog Tour 2014, with 33 of the
best zombie authors spreading the disease in the month of June.

Stop by the event page on Facebook so
you don't miss an interview, guest post or teaser… and pick up some
great swag as well! Giveaways galore from most of the authors as well
as interaction with them! #SummerZombie

Saturday, June 14, 2014

Recently I've been wrestling with the ideas of "being responsible" and "being an author",. There are some people who feel that being an author is not a very responsible profession.

After giving it some thought, I've come up with the following observation: I do NOT feel these two things are mutually exclusive from one another.

In other words, choosing to be an author does not make you irresponsible. And being a responsible person in life doesn't mean you can't be an author.

In fact, I'm going to give you some advice. You need to tell yourself that being an author IS a responsible thing to do.

How can being an author be responsible you ask?

1. You're responsible for your God-given talent. I don't know whether you believe in a higher power or not, but I happen to. And if you have that desire to write, chances are it's what you were born to do. Your brain seems to be wired up that way. So why wouldn't you do what you were born to do? Why squash that talent? Why "put it under a barrel"? Treat your gifts responsibly and allow them to shine.

2. You're responsible for your future readers. You have a story to tell. You have a message for the world. You've been through some hell and back, or you've witnessed others go through it. Or maybe you just want to shed some light on aspects of our society. What you have to say may help others who are going through situations you're writing about. Yes, even my middle-grade fantasy story about monsters and underground worlds, while seemingly without benefit to anyone, may have some nugget that might make some middle-grade reader cope with his/her day-to-day life a little easier. Even if it's only to offer an escape from things for a while. To laugh a bit. To wonder. To dream. You can be responsible for the hopes and dreams of others. That's a powerful thing.

3. You're responsible for your future self. You don't want to be one of those people who goes around saying "I shoulda...", "I coulda...", or "I wish I had...." in their later stages in life. You owe it to yourself to take that chance NOW. And if you are in your later stages in life, it's still not too late to take that responsibility. You are responsible for your own life. Treat that life well. Follow your dreams.

4. You're responsible for being a role model. Maybe you have kids. Maybe you're planning on having kids someday. Maybe you don't have kids or plan to have any, but you touch the lives of children, or even other adults. You are most likely a role model to SOMEONE. So teach them this valuable lesson: it's OK to follow your dreams. Because, when it comes right down to it, isn't that the whole point of life? To follow your dreams? Isn't that what we want for our loved ones? For them to be happy? Show them through example that it's OK. Be a responsible role model.

I could go on, but I think you get the idea. Throw away the idea that being an author is an irresponsible idea. Convince yourself of the contrary, that it IS a responsible thing to do. As long as you do this, and obviously not ignore the other responsibilities in your life, you'll give yourself the power you need to pursue your dream.

Wednesday, June 11, 2014

So I have some exciting things coming up real soon on my blog. No, unfortunately, no publishing news. But I'm going to be trying some new things around here.

First, I'll be hosting one of the authors from the 2014 Summer of Zombie Blog Tour, organized by horror author Armand Rosamilia. Check out the details and the authors involved here if you're interested:

I'll have more information on which author I'll be featuring later in the month.

Second, I'm hoping to start posting interviews with authors on my blog. I have one in particular that I'm hoping to line up real soon, so stay tuned for that.

Finally, it looks like I'll be doing a bit of blog hopping of my own too. Another author friend of mine would like me to do an interview on her blog, so stay tuned for more information on that as well.

Wednesday, June 4, 2014

No, this blog post is NOT about weddings. I'm writing this to tell you all that I'm updating some of the old content on my blog, plus letting you know about some new content.

First, THE OLD:

If you notice, there's a tab where I've listed all my publications so far. If you go into that tab, you can now follow links for a few of them to see some of my stories that are still available online. Go check them out if you've never read any of them.

Now, THE NEW:

I've added two new tabs for the two novels I'm currently working on. One is a middle-grade fantasy novel called Oliver and the Underlings, and the other is a middle-grade mystery novel called The Vanilla Wafer Chronicles: The Case of the Missing Pin. Go check out the tabs to see some short blurbs on each one. Those are basically the pitches I will use when I send these books out to agents. Oliver and the Underlings is complete enough that I've been sending it out to agents, while The Vanilla Wafer Chronicles is in its (hopefully) final stages of editing.

Monday, June 2, 2014

Oh, hi there. C'mon in. Let me dust off some of the cobwebs and swat that bloodthirsty spider from your chair so you can sit comfortably.

Yes, I've been extremely busy lately. Sorry I haven't had time to chat.

What's that? Yes, I AM still writing. See? My computer over there isn't ENTIRELY covered with dust. I've been submitting my middle-grade fantasy novel, Oliver and the Underlings, to agents, and I'm currently working on doing the (hopefully) final edits on my middle-grade mystery novel, The Vanilla Wafer Chronicles: The Case of the Missing Pin. I'll be working on some separate pages related to those on my blog soon. I also wrote a couple short stories and am trying to get those published too.

No, I haven't gotten much reading done this year. Plus, I still have a bunch of books I've acquired at Book Expo America last year and the year before that I haven't gotten to yet. I still need to read those and write reviews. I will get to them. I feel I owe that to those authors for the privilege of receiving those books. Even if the reviews are very late. That's one reason why I didn't attend BEA this year. That and, well, I couldn't afford the expense. Next year though...

Sorry, I can't offer you anything to eat. Something's been rummaging through the fridge again. And the cupboards.

Yes, everyone is fine at home. And the new day job (well, not so new anymore, I've had it a year) is going well too. In fact, now might not be a bad time to seriously dive into my writing again.

Wait, don't go in there. That's not the bathroom, that's the closet. No telling where you might end up if you go in there.

You don't look so good. It looks like you've seen a ghost. No, not a ghost? OK, well, if you're in that much of a hurry, take care then, and feel free to drop in again anytime. I'll be here, typing away.